[Memories, or an event that has occurred or been written, are not quite as fluid as a dream. There's a balance in those cases, when he's behind the eyes of another as both witness and participant, and he's experienced what happens when he shifts that balance.
To seize control is to remember himself wholly and be able to direct events. To relinquish it is to meld with the role more fully, at the risk of forgetting himself. He's not here to change anything, but to survive and perhaps to learn, so he reasons that relinquishing might be worth the risk.
Patience. Left-hand. Augustine... he lets himself feel the weight of the clothes he wears, the drunkenness that warms his skin, knowledge of the right thing to say and the right way to say it.]
To Emperor John Gaius, the Necrolord Prime!
[He drinks until his glass is empty, though it feels like he shouldn't, like he's had enough, like everyone at this table has had more than enough. That's the point; I see, now.
John was trying to rebuff the toast, saying that he wouldn't drink to himself, that he's not so great, that he's not that much of a narcissist. Really, now?
The woman with the rose-gold hair fiercely agrees, going so far as to say that he's the best man who ever lived, and it feels like a concentrated effort between the two of them to pull a boulder back from a cliff. They're working together on something; this is a diversion.]
I'll drink to that.
[But he can't without more wine. They need more wine; he stands to refill his glass and Mercymorn's.]
no subject
To seize control is to remember himself wholly and be able to direct events. To relinquish it is to meld with the role more fully, at the risk of forgetting himself. He's not here to change anything, but to survive and perhaps to learn, so he reasons that relinquishing might be worth the risk.
Patience. Left-hand. Augustine... he lets himself feel the weight of the clothes he wears, the drunkenness that warms his skin, knowledge of the right thing to say and the right way to say it.]
To Emperor John Gaius, the Necrolord Prime!
[He drinks until his glass is empty, though it feels like he shouldn't, like he's had enough, like everyone at this table has had more than enough. That's the point; I see, now.
John was trying to rebuff the toast, saying that he wouldn't drink to himself, that he's not so great, that he's not that much of a narcissist. Really, now?
The woman with the rose-gold hair fiercely agrees, going so far as to say that he's the best man who ever lived, and it feels like a concentrated effort between the two of them to pull a boulder back from a cliff. They're working together on something; this is a diversion.]
I'll drink to that.
[But he can't without more wine. They need more wine; he stands to refill his glass and Mercymorn's.]